The Eighth Commandment (44 page)
“Was he robbed?” Dora asked.
Wenden looked at her curiously. “Do you always go to this much trouble to check out an insurance claim?”
“Not usually,” she admitted. “But this time we’ve got three million reasons. The Company wouldn’t like it if someone profits illegally from Starrett’s murder.”
“You mean if one of the beneficiaries offed him?”
“That’s what I mean.” She repeated: “Was he robbed?”
“Negative,” Wenden said. “He had all his credit cards and a wallet with about four hundred in cash. Also, he was wearing a gold Starrett watch worth fifteen grand and a man’s Starrett diamond ring worth another thirty Gs.”
“But you figure it was a bungled robbery?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe a coked-up panhandler asks for a buck. Starrett stiffs him, maybe curses him, and turns away. His family and friends say he was capable of doing that. Then the panhandler gets sore, pulls out a blade, lets him have it and takes off.”
“Without pausing to lift his wallet or watch?”
“There were apparently no witnesses to the stabbing, but maybe the killer didn’t want to push his luck by staying at the scene for even another minute. Someone might have come along.”
“I don’t know,” Dora said doubtfully. “Seems to me there are a lot of maybes in your scenario.”
The detective stirred restlessly. “Have you investigated many homicides?”
“A few.”
“Then you know that even when they’re solved there are always a lot of loose ends. I’ve never worked a case that was absolutely complete with everything explained and accounted for.”
“Another beer?” she asked.
“Why not?” he said. “I’ve got nothing to do this afternoon but crack four other killings.”
“That much on your plate?”
“It never ends,” he said wearily. “There’s a lot of dying going around these days.”
Dora went to the bar and brought back two more cold bottles.
“Why do I get the feeling,” she said, “that you don’t totally believe your own story of the way it happened.”
“It’s the official line,” he said.
“Screw the official line,” she said angrily. “This is just between you and me, and I’m not about to run off at the mouth to the tabloids. What do
you
think?”
He sighed. “A couple of things bother me. You ever investigate a stabbing?”
“No.”
“A professional knifer holds the blade like a door key, knuckles down. He uses an underhanded jab, comes in low, goes up high, usually around the belly or kidneys. It’s soft there; no bones to snap the steel. The blow that killed Starrett started high and came down low into his back. An amateur did that, holding the knife handle in his fist, knuckles up. And it was amateur’s luck that the blade didn’t break on the spine or ribs. It sliced an artery and punctured the heart—more luck.”
“For the killer, not Starrett.”
“Yeah. Ordinarily one stab like that wouldn’t kill instantly.”
“Man or woman?”
“A man, I’d guess. That shiv went deep. Plenty of power there. It cut through overcoat, suit jacket, shirt, undershirt, skin, flesh, and into the heart.”
“A long blade?”
“Had to be. You talk to any of the family yet?”
“The son,” Dora said. “Clayton.”
“What was your take on him?”
“I got the feeling he wasn’t exactly out of his mind with grief.”
Wenden nodded. “I thought he was controlling his sorrow very well. From what I’ve been able to pick up, he and his father didn’t get along so great. Clayton became president and CEO of Starrett Jewelry when the old man retired, and I guess they didn’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of business decisions. Plenty of screaming arguments, according to the office staff. But that’s not unusual when a father gives up power and a son takes over. The heir usually wants to do things differently, try new things, prove his ability.”
Dora sighed. “I hate these family affairs. They always turn out to be snarls of string. It’s so sad. You’d think a family would try to get along.”
The detective laughed. “Most homicides are committed by a family member or a close friend. You talk to the attorney yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“A nice old guy. He was Lewis Starrett’s lawyer from the beginning.”
“Who inherits?” Dora asked.
“The wife,” Wenden said. “For tax reasons. About eighty million.”
“Wow! Nothing to the son or daughter?”
“Well, you say they’ll each be getting a million in insurance money. And I guess Lewis figured Olivia would leave everything to the children when she shuffles off.”
“What’s she like?”
“Olivia?” He grinned. “I’ll let you make up your own mind. The daughter, Felicia, is the one to look out for. She’s off the wall.”
“How so?”
“Crazy. Runs with a rough downtown crowd. But I’ll say this for her: She seems to be taking her father’s death harder than any of the others.”
“What about Clayton’s wife?”
“Eleanor? A social butterfly. She’s on a zillion committees. Always planning a party for this charity or that. She loves it. Maybe because she can never wear the same dress twice. Listen, I’ve got to split. Where do you live?”
“Hartford.”
“Going home for the weekend?”
“I doubt it. My husband may come down if he can get away.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a dispatcher for a trucking company. Works crazy hours.”
“Well, if he doesn’t show up, maybe we can get together for a pizza.”
She stared at him. “I told you I was happily married.”
“And I heard you,” the detective said. “What’s that got to do with sharing a pizza?”
“Nothing,” Dora said. “As long as we keep it on a professional level. Maybe we can compare notes and do each other some good.”
“Sure we can,” Wenden said. “Here’s my card. If I’m not in, you can always leave a message. Thanks for the lunch.”
“My pleasure,” Dora said and watched him move away, thinking he was an okay guy but he really should get his suit pressed and his shoes shined. She knew he had to deal with a lot of scumbags, but he didn’t have to dress like one.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1986 by Lawrence Sanders
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-9842-8
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
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